


The Battlerager and the Spellcaster

by Khalid



Category: The Legend of Drizzt Series - R. A. Salvatore
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Dwarves, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-25
Updated: 2016-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-16 05:11:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,392
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5815507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Khalid/pseuds/Khalid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thibbledorf Pwent, the filthy and violent Battlerager, discovers the urge to change his outward appearance for the sake of love. Will this be enough? Is it even truly necessary?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Battlerager and the Spellcaster

**Author's Note:**

> So, I actually don't typically do the Salvatore series, but this interaction in teh book I am reading seemed so perfect, it just spawned an instant plot bunny. I have absolutely no further interest in these characters and indeed they are pretty much entirely OOC... But it was funny, so it had to be done. 
> 
> Also, I claim of course, NO authorship for the names and identities in this stry. The works of Drizzt Do'Urden belong in entirity to R. A. Salvatore and whomever has recentlt bought the rights... well, I know I haven't asked permission, so I know I don't own them.
> 
> Please feel free to critique. I enjoy a good public lashing. haha!

Thibbledorf Pwent stood staring vacantly at the full length mirror in his lavish apartments. He had railed against King Bruenor giving his such spacious rooms, but the Dwarf had simply stated they were the smallest rooms on this side of Mithril Hall and he would just have to get used to the idea of not living in a trash can. Everyone in the room had laughed, including Pwent, but inside he had wondered just a small amount how the other Dwarves had seen his modest upbringing. Everyone knew that one does not insult a Dwarf’s family and live to laugh about it, but they had seemed to forget that in referring to Pwent’s uncanny strong smell and how rarely he felt the need to bathe.

Today, he had been accepting the Dwarven emissary from Silverymoon, and it had gone off without a hitch until the Spellcaster, by the name of Fredegar Rockcrusher, had spoken. He had said the Drow should be killed to an Elf, and Pwent had so heartily agreed that he had congratulated Fret (as he was known) with what would have otherwise seemed like a normal thump on the back. However, the visiting Dwarf’s tidiness clashed so directly with is own disarray that he had threatened Pwent with his very life if he so much as touched him again. Normally, Pwent was able to simply laugh these reaction off with his typical brash demeanor, and indeed Fret hardly seemed the size or capability to pull off such a feat, but the comment and reaction had so shook Pwent that he had been silenced immediately. 

No one else in Mithril Hall had seen him slowly walk to his apartments after the exchange, and had they done so, they surely would have assumed nothing was amiss under Pwent’s usually wild expression, but something was indeed roiling inside the Dwarf’s mind. He had never felt this amount of shame before. He didn’t know what to do with it, but he did know that Fredegar engendered in him a feeling unlike any he had felt before. He so strongly desired to impress the tidy Dwarf that he had forgone his armor for this one evening. He had surprised the cooking staff to the core by asking for a bath to be drawn up and to have something good smelling poured into the bath. When confronted by the huge cauldron of water, it smelled more like something to eat than to bathe in, but Pwent resigned to do as he had decided. He washed himself more thoroughly than he had voluntarily in his entire life. 

Now, naked and redder than had he been in a fire, he stood in front of his full length mirror. He had been considering his feelings and thoughts throughout the entire bath and considering the length of it, had considerable time to think. He had always been well aware that his attraction fell toward his own gender more often than not, but until this moment he had not stopped to consider what that sort of desire would entail should he ever attempt to bring it to fruition. Pwent might not be the most socially adept Dwarf in the realms, but he was aware there were certain actions and words spoken that would encourage the other party to look one’s direction… and Thibbledorf Pwent knew exactly none of them. It would not do for him to engage a courtesan in these matters, for Dwarves were a proud people and did not have such things. Also, the fact that Fret would be leaving to return to Silverymoon in just a few days was not lost on Pwent. He would have to make himself known now, he decided, but what to do? He had no appropriate clothing, and armor was out of the question for this kind of battle. He decided that he would simply have to make do with what he regularly wore under his armor and hope the gesture was enough to make his intention obvious.

He stopped considering his reflection long enough to pull the simple jerkin and pants on. They were clean enough, the laundry made sure of that, despite Pwent’s usual protests that an Underdark creature could smell the detergent miles away. Then, clothed in his only garments, he considered his appearance once more. Without his armor, the Battlerager was actually quite small and slight for a Dwarf. He felt weak in his underclothes. He knew that to win over this fight, he would have to cast off his defenses, but he felt so wrong. He decided then that he should make one last effort to appear as courtly as the tidy Fret, and he deftly tied his long, normally unkempt beard into the neatest ponytail he could. Then, with a surety come from long years of handling ropes, he braided a leather cord through it. Last, he attached the Battlerager sigil, the symbol of his service to King Bruenor, to the end. If he could not win out on looks or graces, he knew now he had at least made the best effort he could.

Pwent had expected some sort of shock on seeing him out of his armor, and clean, for the first time to register on someone as he walked the passageways in Mithril Hall. He had not expected that his transformation would be so thorough that he was totally unrecognizable to most of the Dwarves he passed. Most walked by seeming to ignore him entirely except that he heard a few mutter things such as, “Who was that?” and “Do we have a new apprentice here?” He was completely flustered by the time he approached the rooms assigned the Silverymoon emissary and was nearly turned away at the door by guards there. Guards he would have mopped the floor with any other day, but his Battlerager insignia was his saving grace. When they confronted him, demanding his identity and why he wore the Battlerager’s medal, he gruffly responded, “Why do ya think, ya thickheads?!?” Recognizing his voice, demeanor and that the threat was real and immediate, they quickly opened the doors and stood aside, casting confused expressions at one another once he was past them.

Inside Fredegar’s stately apartments, Thibbledorf Pwent lost the bluster that had accompanied him on all his battles and gotten him through the guards. He knew that King Bruenor’s rooms were much more lavishly decorated, but the idea that he was here on a mission of the heart put every detail into a totally new perspective. He had still not worked out what to say to the Dwarf when Fret stepped through the door and spotted him there, looking lost among the finery. “Dear me,” Fret said kindly, not recognizing Pwent any more than the others had, “Did you come to speak with me? Someone should have told me, or at least made you comfortable.” Pwent didn’t blame the emissary for not recognizing him since they had only met once and others who knew him for much longer had walked past without a blink of recognition. While Fredegar was fussing over a drink tray, with his back turned, Pwent gathered all his courage to speak. “I think we got off on the wrong foot this mornin, when ya showed up.” He began, “I didna mean ta put ya off so much and I hope ya can fergive an old Dwarf a life of bad habits if they is willin ta change…” 

Hearing Pwent speak, Fredegar turned around slowly, his eyes wide. In a hushed voice, he spoke, “Thibbledorf Pwent, as I live and breathe! You appear nothing like you did this morning in the hall… Did you do all this… for me?” at this, he gestured to Pwent’s beard and clothes. Pwent replied carefully, this was the clinching conversation he knew; the one which would open the door to a new relationship, or forever slam it in his face.

“I cleaned up a few years o’ bad habits with a bath, sure,” he said carefully, “but underneath I am the same Dwarf I’ve always been.” Pwent stood still then, as Fredegar approached him and put his hands on the Battlerager’s shoulders, looking him square in the eyes. “It would be dishonest to say that you should not have changed on my account… I mean to say, not that you SHOULD have, but that if this is what you want me to see, then I appreciate your willingness to go this far for me.” Then, Pwent was shocked to his core as Fredegar’s hands slid off his shoulders further behind him to wrap around his neck, bringing the tidy Dwarf just inched away from Pwent’s face. “Is this what you desire, Battlerager, or am I misreading your intentions? I am so very bad at reading the actions of my fellow Dwarves.” As he finished his question, Thibbeldorf brought his hands which had been hanging uncomfortably at his sides, aching to hold something, a hammer or shield, anything but this emptiness, up to Fredegar’s hips. He pulled the slightly larger Dwarf the remaining inches toward him, closing the distance with surety. 

This was indeed exactly what he had wanted, and he was surprised that his intentions had been so well read, and by a Dwarf who so freely admitted obliviousness. Pwent supposed that it took both their social awkwardness to bring them together like this, but then his suppositions stopped as their togetherness finalized. Their lips locked in a kiss that sent tingling sensations all throughout Pwent’s frame. He tried not to be rough, and for his part, it appeared that Fret was trying his hardest to be as tough and sturdy as physically possible. It seemed that the simple choice of garments was the way to go in his instance, as Fret pulled them quickly off Thibbeldorf’s frame. The Battlerager in turn stripped Fredegar with no hesitation. They quickly crashed to the couch in the waiting chamber, and Pwent’s thoughts that they should go somewhere more private were instantly silenced as he felt the other Dwarf wrap his fingers, delicate from decades of writing and spellwork, around his bulging cock. He gasped into the other Dwarf’s mouth and pushed Fret away from him ever so slightly. “If this be truly what ya want,” he said softly, “We really should get ta somewhere with a bit more… support.” He finished lamely. He didn’t know how to express what he needed without feeling as though he would break his newfound lover, but Fret took his cue and led him deeper into the rooms. 

Pwent’s eyes stayed on the other Dwarf as they walked; his thoughts on the surprising turn of events. They had just turned to a more somber concern that all would not remain so perfect, when they reached the bedchamber. There, Fredegar turned back to him and caught his somber expression. “We do indeed have some major obstacles ahead, Battlerager,” He spoke as though reading Pwent’s mind, “but let us leave that for the moment and enjoy what we have discovered in one another. There will be time to mull deeper things over later on.” With this wisdom imparted, Fret once again wrapped his hand around Pwent’s cock. The erection had not flagged, he could multitask, and he quickly embraced the Spellcaster once again. They fell onto the bed, this made of much firmer stuff than the couch outside as it was designed specifically for the tossing and turning of a Dwarf. Fret pulled Pwent up onto him, lifting the solidly built Battlerager surprisingly easily. He spread his legs then, and Pwent accepted the invitation. He was surprised to find the spellcaster was quite loose, expecting that he would have to work hard to avoid damaging the other Dwarf. Fret moaned in pleasure as Pwent’s cock entered him and slipped gently onto his hole. Soon, they were moving together so forcefully, the bed shook. These beds, designed for the tossing and turning of a Dwarf in slumber, had no experience with a Battlerager and his lover. 

Thibbledorf Pwent, realizing his ultimate dream, did not last very long at all. He tried to hang his head bashfully when he finished so quickly, with a groan and a burst that filled Fret’s hole, but the spellcaster would have none of it. “Come, lover,” he whispered sensually, “finish me off.” Pwent needed no explanation for this. He kissed the other Dwarf’s hairless chest gently and swiftly, down his torso to the spot where Fret’s thigh met his groin. He spent some moments licking and kissing the hairs that grew in a light thicket around the lone tree… Until Fret groaned and pulled Pwent’s beard braid. Then, He deftly took Fret’s own hard cock into his mouth. Unlike everything else on Fret’s body, his cock was just as thick and sturdy as any Dwarf. Pwent lost no time sucking the stiff member into his mouth. Eagerly, he dipped his head down so that with each suck he could deeply inhale Fret’s musky odor. Fret groaned and continued pulling on the beard, and Pwent thoroughly enjoyed every moment. Then, just as Fret was about to come, Pwent pushed his fingers up to his knuckles into Fret’s hole. Pushing through the slick come he had left there minutes before, he rubbed his fingers expertly against the tender bundle of nerves just behind Fret’s cock. Fret screamed as he came explosively into Pwent’s mouth, then screamed again as Pwent, swallowing the come all at once, stimulated his oversensitive head. 

Gasping, the Dwarves lay side by side on the bed. “When ya came here,” Pwent asked softly, “did ya fer one minute think ya would be in bed with anyone... least of all, me?” Fret propped himself up on one elbow and turned Pwent’s face toward him, using the same handle as during their encounter, “Thibbledorf Pwent,” He spoke softly and urgently, “I have been watching you through my scrying crystals for decades. I never thought you would want someone as soft as myself, but you are worth any amount of mess I have to deal with.” With that proclamation, the two locked lips once again, thoroughly delving into each other’s mouths with their tongues. After a few minutes, Pwent lay back, smiling. It would be good to have a short nap before his king needed him again.


End file.
